Here I am

This blog post is brought to you by sleeping babies.

I’ll real quick hit the highlights of the last several months to catch up my loyal reader:

1. Huck and Finn almost made it to their intended “full-term” arrival date. They missed it by 7hrs. and 45 mins. A feat no one thought possible. I am lucky, Huck and Finn are so so lucky.

2. Life with twins rocks. I’d consider doing it again……in a very distant future……….maybe. Probably not. Not because parenting is twins is beyond difficult but because I am a lifelong, diehard, loyal, committed attachment parent and I haven’t quite figured out how to be an effective attachment parent with twins…it’s just different.


Now on to my normal daily drivel of pettiness:

3. After an encounter with a swearing older toddler (I’m being generous with age) this week who is still nursing I’ve decided to wean Huck and Finn before they swear like a sailor. It just seems right, I think.

And yet somehow the phrase, “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth” doesn’t seem to fit here.

4.  My lactation consultant buddy told me this week that, “infants can’t or don’t metabolize caffeine. There is no reason to change from your normal diet.” Hallelujah, Starbucks, my sweet, sweet insanity saviour, oh, how I’ve missed your sweet elixir of life. Ode to Starbucks:

Dearest Caffeinated One,

I fear I’ve entered a co-dependant relationship with your sweet goodness of energy enhancing swill.  I’ll always remember what you’ve done for me. I don’t ever want to live without you.


A green tea (Macha) addict

And, it doesn’t help that my local Starbucks treats me like Norm from Cheers. They know my name, my order and have it made before I pay.

5. My horses broke into the tack/feed room 2 days ago and ate approximately 350lbs of grain and 30lbs of alfalfa. Normally this would knock a *normal* horse down never to live another day. But we aren’t that lucky here at the Johnson Ranch. They’ll out live us all. Like cockroaches after nuclear fallout.

6. I love MythBusters. I need a recovery group to overcome my addiction. Why was science never that fun in grade school? Lame-o teachers. I’d like to fire them out of a human cannon.

I’m off to Starbucks before my little milk suckers awake.

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I woke up fat

Every night I still dream I can fit into my pre-preggy clothes. E-V-E-R-Y N-I-G-H-T  I feel normal then I wake up and discover anew a 25 lb baby mountain has been strapped to my midriff.

It’s disturbing.

This morning was the same. Except the baby mountain has outgrown every maternity shirt I own over night. I now look at my husbands closet with growing maternity-fashion potential. I’m not proud of that. In my world before I was hijacked by hormones I would never, ever, ever consider my husband’s closet fair game.

But, shopping for more maternity clothes brings pain, physical pain to my psyche. Because it’s admitting I may be preggy for-ever, it’s giving in, it’s giving up. Oh no, I will make it to the end in size small maternity shirts with size extra-grande twins. I just don’t care about decency anymore.

Oh no, I will wear my size small maternity shirts even if 3/4ths of my belly hangs out the hem line, redneck style. I don’t care if it makes anyone uncomfortable because I am 5,000 times more uncomfortable than they could imagine. Having an exposed 8 month gestational belly *which measures 7-8 weeks larger than a singleton. That means I looked full term 2 weeks ago* is nothing compared to the sad fate of my:

 ribs (they get no respect anymore)

lungs ( I feel like a seasoned smoker with 13% lung capacity)

endurance (walking to the mailbox  winds me) Dear Huck and Finn, thanks again for stealing my iron, hemoglobin, B12, B6, and B3 vitamins. I’m glad you feel like your placenta deserves more than my bone marrow. Love, your gestational carrier.

7 more weeks until Huck and Finn are full-term.

49 more days

1,176 hours

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

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3rd Trimester absurditity

One, two, three, four get your woman on the floor….

Oh Coolio, I can’t get you out of my brain. You are polluting me and turning me into a heathen.

Yo: Raisins, mushrooms, peanut butter and horseradish you are nasty.

A margarita sounds super wonderful.

My thoughts aren’t super deep as of late as you can see. I contribute this to:

1. My children are CONSISTENTLY talking allll the time I have no sacred time. I can tell you everything you ever wanted to know about Ninja’s, Belgian Horses, troubleshooting the Wii, fundamentals of fire building, troglodytes (cave creatures), why “TRUE” is spelled with an “E” and “TRULY” is not while “CANOEING” keeps the “E”, and Why, in one young lad’s opinion, the Ottoman Turks were a bit strange.

I’ve already determined in my mind that Eagle will be from this day ever forth be on an educational path to Law School. The kid cannot conceive of a universe where he is wrong…..E-V-E-R.

2. The last book I read was BossyPants by Tina Fey. I credit it with a solid 35% of my intellectual downfall.

3. My body has been hijacked by testosterone thanks to Huck and Finn. I now know what it means to think male. I am outnumbered 1:2. My estrogen just can’t compete.

4. I only know how to count to 8. Next week I will only know how to count to 7 and the week after that I’ll only be able to count to 6. Because my life is now measured in week long increments. I know, without a doubt that I will be a party of one in NO LONGER than 8 weeks. It’s hard to carry on significant brain function when I have such a short-term frame of reference.

5. I get all my news from Jon Stewart.




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My belly itches like I rolled  Poison Ivy thanks to Huck and Finn who are currently engaged in a little fetal competitive eating contest. I’m totally happy they are sucking down the chow but it means my frail Irish skin has to expand to previously unknown dimensions.

My solution?

Coconut oil and vitamin E. I smell like a Caribbean Island without the Margarita or tanning oil.

My goal for this pregnancy:

1. Full term

2. No stretch marks, because I didn’t invest a stink load of money in bikini’s in my 20’s not use them.

That’s it, really.

In other news this man, Avick Mitra, Maternal Fetal Medicine Dr.

Avick Goran Mitra, MD (who looks about 25 years older than this in real life)

has released me into normal society with no restrictions. He says I can ride my horses, go to the gym, run a marathon, and do pretty much anything I want until Huckleberry and Finnius  make their transition from fetus to infant.

First thing I do: take my kids to the Renaissance Festival. Because “normal” to the Johnson’s are medieval weapons, jousting, and crude comedy that thankfully Eagle and Simi don’t yet grasp.

It was beyond uncomfortable to be around 7,456 people when I was used to a party of one. And people stare at me like a freak. The winch lass at the front gate offered to have a midwife follow me around during my stay at the faire.

I cursed at her in Modern English but she didn’t get it. Maybe I would have tried Old English if I was fluent. Thankfully my charges were preoccupied with over priced, but still deadly Chinese throwing stars to notice my decent into indecency.

Without doubt in public 45 people will ask me when I am due. I loath this question because:

1. It reminds me that everyone can see I am the size of a Volkswagen. (Eagle tells me just Punch Bug size, not Westphalia size. Sweet, boy)

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2. I can see the physical pain in their eyes when I say “December”.

So I have to be creative.

Top answers for, “When are you due?”

1. I’m not pregnant. It’s cancer.

2. July

3. Oh, this isn’t a baby. Would you like to hear my story of alien abduction?



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I’m Backkkkkkkk

I’m backkkkkkkk!

Thanks to Tanya (go here and read all about her) I have a computer to communicate with the outside world again. Thank you Tanya, my 2 loyal readers are happy again.

Let me super condense the past 4 weeks of my life

1. Everything is great

2. Everything is all of a sudden not great.

3. Everything is stable and looking good.

I’ll focus on bullet point number dos. Huck and Finn, the miniature people with whom I currently share a body, decided to break out of my uterine jail 4 months too early. My theory as to why they pulled this stunt: because they like seeing me on the verge of cardiac arrest already. I feel like this is foreshadowing of their toddler years.

The upside: Thanks to the docs who preformed at bit of knitting 101 on my cervix Huck and Finn are still fetuses instead of extremely premature infants or worse. Side note: If you are feeling a little bummed out about your life I invite you over for an enjoyable evening of desserts and drama. I will reenact cervical surgery while you enjoy a store-bought (but vegan, of course) brownie. I guarantee you will leave in a more grateful and jovial frame of mind than when you came thankful, mostly, that won’t have to sit through that again.

The downside: having one’s cervix crocheted shut isn’t how you’d want to spend an enjoyable, diverting evening. And the bedrest. In theory, bedrest sounds great. My mind entertains ideas of copious amounts of books and DVD’s while a chef (Mr. Johnson) prepares the most wonderful vegan delights as he sings with the voice of Julie Andrews the State of Being Verb song to our young brood whilst I happily spend the day in bed endlessly entertained.

Let me tell you what it’s really like,

self-imposed agoraphobia.

Everyday I count the days until a doctor’s visit so I can leave the house.

My children mock me in scarily subtle ways.While Eagle questions the doctors bedrest  judgment, “Mom, surely you can do more than just lay around.” With emphasis on surely. Then I tell him,”oops, I totally forgot, Lego International called while you were outside. I told them you’d rather not accept the Grand Prize free Lego offer because you are much to humble.” Then he laughs and lays in bed with him while I tell him stories of his babyhood. Mainly the one where I was his favorite person for 6 years until he discovered Legos, Cub Scouts, and friends.

My husband isn’t super excited about filling Julie Andrews shoes. In fact vacuuming sends him over the edge.  He can make a mean vegan sandwich, though. I sense his need to talk about steel and Mutual Funds are a means of compensation for domestic duties.

A friend brought over a meal recently and gushed, “Man, I wish I could be on bedrest for a month. It looks like a nice break.”

Then I kung Fu-ed her face with my super flexible pregnancy limbs.

But quickly forgave her when I tasted the curried carrot soup she brought. It was so good.

Moral of the story: Feel free to be insulting if good food is around.


There are only 3 things you should say to a pregnant lady.

1. You look FANTASTIC

2. Here, sit down

3. Have a cookie

Over and out.



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High of the week:


2 more boys.

twin boys.

2 more children who will eventually grow up and think I am dumb.

It’s taken me 144 hours to get over the shock and awe. My gender intuition has never been off….ever. I can’t wrap my head around the notion that I may be wrong. It calls into question the authority of my ability.

Wait. I am not comfortable with that.

I’ll settle for denial……. I am always right.

IN other news Mr. Johnson would like to name one if not both “Irvin”. It’s a fine family name. I just prefer the name not be in my family. I’ve threatened to name them Huck and Finn  or Muhammad and Fatima if he insists on that direction.









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Rotten children

My kids, oh Dear Jesus, where did I go wrong? Was it:

a. the high fructose corn syrup

b. too many hours of PBS.

c. sub-par parenting

d. homeschooling

e. influence from friends

f. I never read the Power of a Praying Parent because I want to punch Stormie Omartin in the face.

I don’t know the details of the under-age cage match mostly because I don’t want to know. I have better things to do after all than listen to fit-for-daytime-television-drama coming from the mouths of my children. Like eat pink Starburst and read The Emperor of all Maladies.

But what I do know is there was a slightly bloody nose, mild skin burn and heated words. And I can tell you there was no underdog; both parties were active participants in this miscreant behavior.

Funny, but neither party was particularly eager to share the details so I doled out equal punishment, chores and fines. Starbursts don’t pay for themselves after all.

It’s been quiet since.



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